Behaving Like Adults (34 page)

‘Anyway,' I added, ‘I have a reason for not telling them. Didn't you just say that we've got to wait for Stuart to
incriminate himself? If I tell Mum and Dad, they'll dismiss him as their solicitor and then he'll have to hand back the papers.'

‘Not necessarily. Why should he hand back the papers they don't know about? If you decide to tell Mum and Dad tomorrow, I'll be delighted. I had a silly notion that it would be satisfying for you if our family ended up having a hand in sending Stuart to prison. But, really, what does it matter? Camille is going to report him to the Law Society or the police – whether she does that with or without our help is irrelevant. I just thought it would be nice for you.'

My toes curled under the covers.
Nice
for me!! What did she think this was? A game? On the principle that I'd feel better if I fed Stuart the parsnip that made him fart in public? I reclined against the headboard in a haughty manner, the opposite of Pollyanna.

‘Nothing, Claudia, is
nice
for me,' I said. ‘Please don't use that word. And I choose not to tell Em and Dee for reasons you could never understand. And please remove this spinach soup, I don't want it, I want a cornflake and goo square.'

Claw stood, tall in her heels. ‘Whistle for it,' she replied, and stomped out. Leaving the spinach soup.

The instant the door shut, I scrambled out of bed and ran after her.

‘Wait, come back.'

She stopped on the stairs.

I added, ‘I, um, don't want the conversation to end this way. I'm honoured that you told me. And I wish you and Camille lots of happiness. I'm just . . .'

She ran back. ‘You're right,' she said, rubbing my arm. ‘I can't understand how it is for you. I'm sorry, too. It's just that I hate him to death for what he did to you, and I cannot stand the thought that he won't be punished. Camille was
so
certain, but I suppose she could be mistaken. This whole thing about him being a crook is unlikely. I suppose I'd just like it to be true.'

We smiled at each other. A few minutes later I watched from the window as Camille's car juddered to a halt outside the house, and Claudia skipped down the path. I hadn't seen her skip since she was five.

I
skipped till, well, a few months ago. Not down Oxford Street. Only in the park, and only for a few steps (Nick always there for back-up) but it's surprisingly exhilarating. Adults
ought
to skip.

I ran a hand through my hair. It was greasy and stuck to my head. You should pull yourself out of this, I thought. It was terrifying that a single incident and then a follow-up bit of bad news could
puncture
me. The glandular fever was nothing more than a symptom.

I'd always thought of myself as tough. I hoped I was kind. But I
knew
I was tough. If I had a goal, I reached it. And if ever my life didn't go to plan, I'd bounce back. You have to. From the dishwasher leaking to being made redundant because your boss doesn't like you, life is full of injustice, and for your own sanity you cannot take it personally. Sure, you can cry in the bath – that's not weak, that's necessary – as long as it doesn't become habit. Often, happiness is a choice. You have to seek it out, whatever happens.

And yet, the morning before, I'd smashed a plate and burst into tears because I'd wanted a cheese and avocado sandwich and all three avocados in the bowl were black. These days, this was the level of problem that felled me. I was like a dandelion spore, captive to the lightest breeze. There was no fight left in me. My business was failing and I couldn't be
bothered
to save it. It was too much effort to cut my toenails. Any longer, and they'd start to curl. After walking upstairs I'd have to sit on the edge of my bed for five minutes. My pillow was delevoping a crust.

I thought of Manjit. In his early twenties, Manjit had suffered from clinical depression. Nick, trying to be helpful, had suggested that going for a. run in the park might help. Wasn't exercise good for depression? No, replied
Manjit. Exercise was good if you merely felt a bit low. ‘If I went for a run in the park,' he added, ‘I'd just be running in the park, depressed.'

Seven years later, I finally understood what he meant. I could alter location, run away, my surroundings would change, but not me. I picked at the window ledge. The paint was flaky. It was the end of the world. My face crumpled up for a sobbing fit, but I pulled back, halfway. I could not let Stuart beat me. Not
him
. I had to erase him from my existence. I could never forgive – why should I? – but I would delete him like a computer error from my life, for
me
. Claw was right. The past was set in stone. But I could act as if I was ready to face the future.

In primary school assembly, our eccentric (or malicious, I never could decide which) headmaster occasionally made us play the Laughing Game. A hundred five year olds began slowly, saying ‘ha ha ha', and within minutes, the fake jollity would turn into real hysterics.
I
could never do it. I didn't see what was so funny. It wasn't as if he even did a burp to start us off. But now, I was determined to master the Laughing Game. If I pretended long enough, one day surely it would feel real.

So when the phone rang, I picked it up with a bright, ‘Hello!'

‘Holly? Stuart Marshall. I'm suing you for defamation.'

He cut off. The blood rushed. I sat down on the floor but it wasn't enough, I had to lie flat out. I felt like I might vomit, and there was a curious deafness in my ears. Why
me
? said that little voice inside all of us that believes evil befalls other people. When you dust yourself off and vow to start again, fate is meant to cut you a break. That's the universal reward for being
plucky
. This must be a sign. I was cursed.

Life stank spectacularly.

‘
HAVING A BAD
day?' enquired Gloria.

‘I'm curled on the floor in the foetal position,' I replied. ‘What do
you
think?'

I glared at her foot, as it was nearest. She always wore sneakers.

‘Up to you, but I need to clean.'

Feeling foolish, I staggered to my feet. I didn't want to tell her about being sued, because if she told me that my angel would protect me, much as I'd regret it, I was going to have to punch her in the face.

‘I felt dizzy,' I said. ‘I'm still recovering from a serious illness.'

Gloria looked at me as if were searching for something. ‘Would you like a cuppa?'

I dragged out a couple of chairs, screeching them across the floor, while Gloria boiled the kettle. So she wouldn't attempt to make me exhume my demons, I said, ‘Seen any angels lately?'

She turned from the side, frowning. She had delicate features – a sweet little nose like a doll, large brown eyes with dark lashes and that wipe-out smile – and she dressed like a golfer. Nasty flat shoes and polonecks. Her personality didn't match her looks.

‘I hope you're not being sarcastic,' she said.

‘I'm not, really.' I was grateful to be treated so roughly. Like I was normal.

‘Good.' She paused and took a bite of a chocolate biscuit. ‘I don't
see
angels. I sense them. And I hear them.'
She grinned, displaying cocoa teeth. ‘A few weeks ago, I was reading this book.
Crime Classification Manual
. It's mostly about serial killers. They fascinate me.'

‘Oh!' I spluttered, adjusting expectations of John Grisham. ‘Not in a I-want-to-marry-you type way, I hope?'

I hoped she mistook my blush for a fever. One of my most shameful episodes was suggesting to a depressed Manjit that he read a self-help book for men entitled
Male Order
. A perfectly respectable work, but aimed at the guy whose most profound introspection entails catching his reflection in his pint. Manjit had glanced at the cover and said, ‘I've read some Freud – he was a bit over the top – and Nietzsche – I think he was right about society – and Jung – I mean I take his side against Freud – but I was hoping for . . .' he'd trailed off. I'd blushed, at my error of presuming that dialect reflects intelligence.

Gloria shook her head, serious. ‘The nature of evil,' she said. ‘Mostly, even the most depraved monsters don't think of what they do as evil. They just think they're pursuing their interests.'

‘What – murder, rape, needlepoint?'

She smiled, in the way people do when they're courtesy bound to acknowledge your feeble wit, but in a great rush to proceed with disclosure of their own genius. ‘Anyways. I lost the book. I looked everywhere. Under the bed – I specially remember looking there – in drawers, places I knew it wasn't going to be. Couldn't find it. And then' – a glow lit her features and I feared I knew what was coming – ‘early one morning, I heard this voice, a tiny but clear as crystal voice that said “Look under the bed”. I opened my eyes with a snap and there was a
feeling
of a presence, but as I watched I could sense it fading. I went back to sleep, feeling incredibly peaceful, and when I woke up again, I looked under the bed—'

‘And there was the
Crime Classification Manual
,' I interrupted, because I didn't think I could bear to hear the punchline spoken in tones of hushed reverence. You'd
think what with all the death, poverty, cruelty, torture and misery in the world, angels would have more important tasks to fulfil than to inform Gloria where she'd dropped her story book. I thought her angel was more likely to be her own memory, or possibly the tooth fairy, who must have a great deal of leisure time these days, what with all the advances in dental care.

‘Correct,' purred Gloria. She took a great slurp of tea before saying so casually that she was halfway through the sentence before I caught up, ‘My cousin never recovered. Six years on, she's still on anti-depressants, can't have a relationship. She was seventeen when it happened. It was her first ti—'

I sprang up. ‘Glor,' I said. ‘This is the trouble with sharing. Your problems become public property. But, however much they're picked over by others, they remain
your
problems. If I wanted to discuss it, you'd be one of the first people I'd come to, but I don't. Do you mind?'

Gloria shook her head. ‘I should of thought. The last thing you need is ear from me.' She smiled, kindly. Gloria spoke her mind, so plain speaking didn't offend her.

The doorbell rang and I froze. ‘Don't get it,' I croaked. But Gloria was already in the hall. ‘If it's a blonde man in his twenties, don't get it, I'll call the p—'

‘It's a woman,' bellowed Gloria. ‘Middle aged. Glamorous. Posh.' She said it mockingly.
Powsh
.

I heaved myself up, muttering about Jehovah's Witnesses, and peered through the blind. ‘Mrs Mortimer!' I yanked open the door. ‘Mrs Mortimer!' – I'd always found it hard to call Nick's mother ‘Lavinia' – ‘Come in, how lovely to see you!'

As I said these words, I did a mental run-through of the state of the house. Spotless. Then I realised I was in my pyjamas and there was a spinach stain on my crotch. ‘I'm so sorry for looking like this, I've been unwell, Gloria, could you possibly put the kettle on again, I'll just go and change—'

Gloria looked at me, then at Mrs Mortimer, plainly amused. But Mrs Mortimer cried, ‘Please, Holly, you're fine as you are – unless you're cold – it really doesn't matter to me.'

But it mattered to me, so I galloped up the stairs and changed. When I galloped back down, Gloria pointed to the lounge and did a quick mime show, pulling her mouth into a droop, curling her hands into fists and rubbing them under her eyes. Mrs Mortimer was
crying
?

I crept into the lounge. Mrs Mortimer seemed perfectly composed – legs elegantly crossed, sheer tights – no, stockings, I bet – sleek high heels, a pencil skirt, white blouse, a smart caramel jacket and a silk scarf, tied at the neck. Her dark shiny hair was wound into a chignon. But I looked closely and underneath the Estee Lauder face her dark blue eyes were red and puffy.

‘Is it Nick?' I blurted, before I could stop myself.

Her head jerked. ‘Why, yes. Yes. It
is
Nick.'

I dropped on the sofa, a jelly. I must have been jittery, because I was about to mouth the word ‘dead?' when Mrs Mortimer cried, ‘Holly, we've made the most terrible mistake, and I'm desperate – I'm sure he's told you – he didn't talk to us for a month, and then about two weeks ago he finally agreed to see us, but he's so cold and distant and I don't know what to do, nor does Michael, and we, we thought that
you
might be able to help, speak to him, he'd listen to you, he still loves you, of course, and oh! we wouldn't ask but we're at our wits' end, we've caused him such pain – quite, quite the opposite of what we intended – Michael would have come with me, but he's, he's too upset, oh Holly, surely
you
see why we didn't tell Nick he was adopted until now?'

I must have a masculine side, I can't bear to see a beautiful woman in distress. More than anything, I wanted to nod my head. After a pause, I shook it.

Mrs Mortimer put a hand to her mouth. ‘We didn't want to rock the boat. We thought it would be better for him,
not to know, to grow up confident, but, the last thing he said to me was that his whole life with us had been a deception. I
knew
this would happen, we should never have told him at all.'

I couldn't agree. I took a deep breath – I had never contradicted her before. ‘But Mrs Mortimer. Surely you can see that Nick had a right to know.'

She sniffed delicately into a cotton handkerchief. ‘Lavinia, please. Holly, he was so hurtful. He said it made sense, that he'd always felt different – distant from us. He said he felt like a reject. Of course, I said he was special – he
is
special – I said he was special because we
chose
him. And then he said' – she paused and swallowed – ‘he said “Yes, but only after I was
unchosen
by my real mother. So not that special after all.” He was so very angry, Holly. I've never seen him so angry. In fact, I've never seen him so
anything
.'